


under the toussaint sun

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Happy, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC) Spoilers, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, OT3, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Pre-OT3, Pre-Slash, Quiet longing, Slash, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You’re asking me why?” Geralt said, irritation lacing his tone. “After everything you’ve done for me, you have to ask me why I’d do this for you?”An alternative is offered; Dettlaff survives, but the road to recovery will be long and painful. Fortunately, Geralt owns a vineyard now, and can't think of a better place to retire. A series of slow-burn Geralt/Regis/Dettlaff one-shots.





	1. i. un

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreabean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreabean/gifts).



“Regis,” Geralt said, “wait.”

Regis’s hand wavered; his face, already pained, cracked with despair. “Geralt,” he replied, hoarse. “If I do not, this will never end.”

Even though thinking while he was dripping toxic blood through his shredded armour was a difficult enough feat, Geralt had said it against his better judgement, not against his conscience. “That cage below seemed pretty effective at holding you,” he said. “We could take him –”

“That cage,” Regis said, his tone nearly a snarl, “is a torture chamber. I would rather see him dead than trapped in eternal suffering.”

“I didn’t say to _keep_ him there for eternity.” Pain stabbed Geralt behind his ribs, poison seeping through his bloodstream dripping from the gash at the curve of his neck and shoulder. Dettlaff hadn’t pierced his jugular or the carotid artery – still, wouldn’t be unwise to keep pressure on the wound until he could clean and dress it. “Just until he’s calmed down and can be reasoned with –”

“This is no mere wound that can be mended!” Regis snapped. “I know your mutations do not truly make you heartless or without emotions, Geralt, but you have no _idea_ how deeply we vampires feel things. How our very beings, our cores, are driven by our hearts.”

He was on his knees now, his hand hovering over the shuddering remains of the man who’d wreaked destruction down upon Beauclair. There was nowhere to grip, no appendage to grasp to offer comfort to Dettlaff; Geralt didn’t doubt for a moment that what Regis said about vampires being ruled by their emotions was true.

“Dettlaff fell for Syanna, then lost her, then was manipulated by her to commit atrocities while thinking she was in danger – and could not even find peace in accepting her actions, nor gain the satisfaction of taking her life,” Regis continued. “His heart is bleeding and no bandage will be enough to staunch the flow. He will _never stop_ unless I stop him now.”

“So _give_ him a reason to stop,” Geralt said. “Isn’t that what started all of this? That he had a _reason?_ ”

Regis shook his head. “It isn’t that simple, Geralt.”

“Seems plenty simple to me.”

Geralt stepped forwards, grunting when he put weight on his battered leg. He was at Regis’s side now – Regis’s claws had long since retracted, his hand normal again. Dettlaff was still a meaty mess on the floor, his body slowly knitting back together; he looked like a slab of massacred game, hacked up by an inexperienced butcher using a blunted knife. Enough of his arm had regenerated for Regis to lower his hand to it, offering the simplest of comforts to a being who probably felt nothing else but distant pain and fear.

“I may not know the particulars of your bond with him,” Geralt continued, “but he helped you regenerate, something you implied was at great expense to himself.”

Regis closed his eyes.

“How many years did that take, Regis? How many years did you two share blood, food, a bed –”

Regis whispered, “Don’t.”

“You can help him heal.”

Regis was silent for a long time, his hand a vice-like grip around Dettlaff’s twitching arm while he absorbed Geralt’s words.

“The Duchess demands his head,” he finally said.

“The Duchess won’t be able to tell the difference between a vampire’s head and a ghoul’s head.” Geralt grasped Regis’s shoulder, cringing when he tugged his torn muscles. “C’mon. I’ll help you carry him down.”

“You would do this?” Regis asked. It wasn’t hope in his voice, exactly, but it was something close to it. “For him?”

“No,” Geralt replied.

“Then why –”

“You’re asking me why?” Geralt said, irritation lacing his tone. “After everything you’ve done for me, you have to ask me _why_ I’d do this for you?”

“Geralt,” Regis said. He wasn’t looking up at Geralt; he’d gathered Dettlaff – returning slowly to his human-like form, sliced to ribbons through to the bone – in his arms, cradling his friend’s broken body. “I –”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

In the end, Regis was lost for words; all he could manage to whisper was, “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by carrying _me_ back home,” Geralt said, grunting when he helped lift Dettlaff’s remains. “I fully plan on passing out after this.”

The moment Dettlaff was locked in the cage in the heart of Tesham Mutna, the stumps of his arms locked in the cuffs, Geralt did exactly that.


	2. ii. deux

Geralt woke two days later in his bed in Corvo Bianco.

He didn’t remember hitting the ground, which meant he’d either passed out before collision, or Regis had caught him.

“You were on the verge of death when he carried you in, sir!” BB practically wailed.

If Geralt _had_ died, he’d be the first Witcher to die of his battle wounds in a bed he’d only just started getting used to calling his own; some sort of irony there. Fortunate, he supposed, that the hand that stripped him down to his underclothes then treated and bandaged his wounds was that of a surgeon.

Couldn’t kick the barber habit, either – Regis had groomed Geralt’s hair while unconscious, no doubt finding the Witcher’s physical appearance offensive after several days of not shaving, not showering, and nearly dying in a fight with a crazed higher vampire.

“Is he still here?” Geralt grunted, pulling a shirt and pants on while BB fretted and Marlena tried to shove soup into his hands.

Regis was not still there. After he’d treated Geralt and spoken to the Corvo Bianco staff about Geralt’s condition, he’d left as swiftly as he’d arrived.

Geralt expected nothing less, but he allowed himself a minute or so to scowl about it.

Wasn’t like Dettlaff was _going_ anywhere, after all.

* * *

He stomped out of the estate sooner than he ought to have – his muscles still ached, he was a bit more ruthless with dispatching the ghouls than was strictly necessary – and he kept on stomping all the way up to Anna Henrietta’s pavillion without even bothering to clean himself of the blood and mud and sweat beforehand. Geralt wasn’t spiteful, not really, but he was – irritable? Annoyed? Something that wasn’t as hot as anger, but not mild enough to call bitter – something in between, not unlike the way salt tasted. He wanted her to see him as he was – not a knight, not her champion, not a hero, but a killer of monsters who was sent to slay a man.

Anna Henrietta wanted the head of the Beast of Beauclair. Too bad she was hiding it in her playroom.

The Duchess’s ladies and staff shrieked and jumped out of his way when stormed up to the pavillion and dumped the ghoul’s pulped head on the ground. It rolled to a stop at the hem of the Duquessa’s gown, is eyes vacant and glazed and a trail of blood leaking from the stump of its neck.

“The Beast,” Geralt growled, “of Beauclair.”

It didn’t look a thing like Dettlaff, but fortunately Anna Henrietta didn’t care to scrutinise it – she believed him. The violence in Beauclair stopped the moment Geralt felled Dettlaff, and Anna Henrietta had her beloved sister back. He refused the coin she offered him, refused to stay and eat lunch with her, and grudgingly agreed to return in a few days’ time to stand as a witness to Syanna’s trial, which would probably be as much of a farce as the monster’s head at the Duchess’s feet.

He didn’t go back to Corvo Bianco straight away – knowing the Duchess, she’d probably sent the coin directly to the estate anyway, with a procession to honour him. He spent the rest of the daylight hours stomping around the countryside, tossing bombs into monster nests and agitating his own wounds, and tore one of Regis’s stitches, no longer sure who he was more disappointed in – Anna Henrietta, or himself. He didn’t care if she wanted to live a lie; he just hated that she was making _him_ an accessory to it.

It was long after nightfall when he returned to his home – _still_ sounded strange – managing to avoid most of the staff who had turned in hours ago. The house was dark but for the soft glow of candlelight inside, left by BB. And in the doorway –

Geralt stopped.

Regis stood there, still as a statue – one hand gripped around the leather strap of his bag across his chest, the other reached halfway to Geralt.

Geralt grunted, the twitch of his mouth the only outward sign of his relief at seeing Regis. “Didn’t think you’d come back so s—”

Regis’s arms were around him in an instant, his movement so swift that Geralt barely had time to blink.

“My friend,” Regis murmured. “If I’d known how badly injured you were, I’d never – I would never have –”

“Yeah, well,” Gerald said, returning the firm embrace, “I have this surgeon friend who’s good at saving lives, see, so I figured –”

“Oh, _do_ be quiet.” Regis’s voice was muffled against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt caught a scent of mint and lavender before they finally pulled apart, though Regis’s hand still gripped his arm.

“Did you _have_ to shave me, though?” Geralt asked. “I was liking the beard. Made me look rugged.”

“ _Scraggly_ , I think is the word,” Regis said. “I assure you, your ruggedly handsome looks have not been diminished by a proper groom. I for one have always favoured the afternoon-shadow look on you.”

“That so,” Geralt muttered. “Don’t just stand there, come inside.”

“I – yes, thank you,” Regis said. “We have much to talk about. Dettlaff –”

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not tonight.”

Regis was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “Not tonight,” he agreed. From his satchel, he pulled a bottle of mandrake moonshine. “Instead, perhaps –”

“Why didn’t you lead with _that?_ ” Geralt said, and closed the door shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I should be writing my novel  
> Also me: [writes fanfiction instead]


	3. iii. trois

Considering Geralt’s metabolism was inordinately faster than that of the average human’s, getting as drunk as he did on Regis’s mandrake juice was no small feat. He went to get forced (“ _Fitted_ , Geralt,” Regis corrected) into a hideous outfit while horribly, painfully hungover, then promptly ruined the fabric by getting into a fistfight out of spite.

Not that the fistfight was his fault, but still.

The only evidence Regis was hungover was the slightly-more-than-usual prominence of red in his eyes, and the bitterness with which he spoke of the Duchess even as they discovered she was to be Dettlaff’s final victim.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to come to the ceremony,” Geralt said.

“Decidedly not,” Regis replied, sounding tart; Geralt grinned. “Besides, Dettlaff –”

Geralt stopped grinning. “Yeah,” he said, irritable once more. “You don’t want to leave him alone for too long in case he decides to sack another city.”

Regis frowned. “Geralt –”

Geralt waved his hand. “Go on,” he said, tired now. “I’ll catch up with you after I’ve seen the Duchess.”

* * *

He told Anarietta about Syanna’s plot against her, but Anarietta – stubborn as always – refused to believe him.

Whatever, he thought as the sisters embraced. It wasn’t his problem if the Duchess’s naivety came back to bite her on her pert, well-rounded ass one day; as far as he was concerned, Syanna and Anarietta deserved each other.

A few thousand coins later – which Geralt had offloaded onto Barnabous-Basil with vague instructions to “spruce the place up however you like” – he found himself dragging his feet back to Tesham Mutna in the dying light of the setting Toussaint sun.

Dettlaff’s howls of agony and rage could be heard long before he set foot in the prison.

“Dettlaff, please _listen_ –”

“ _YOU TURNED AGAINST ME_ –”

Near-death, it seemed, had not quelled Dettlaff’s penchant for the dramatic.

Dettlaff looked terrible. His skin had stitched back together, though it still looked raw, fresh; nor had his face returned to its humanoid, handsome form. He thrashed in the cage like an animal, violent and damaged, snapping and snarling at Regis whose attempts to calm him only fed his anger.

“Let me try,” Geralt suggested, moving closer to Regis who had withdrawn from Dettlaff.

“With all due respect, Geralt,” Regis sighed, exhaustion lining his features heavily, “I don’t think that’s a terribly good idea.”

Geralt lifted a shoulder. “Got nothing to lose. Even if he loses his temper, he’s not going anywhere.”

Regis offered him a small, tired smile. “Ever pragmatic, my friend. Very well. But Dettlaff is not especially – _receptive_ at present.”

“Have a bit of faith in me, Regis,” Geralt said, clapping Regis on the shoulder. “I’m a people person. Go get some fresh air.”

The fact that Regis didn’t protest – again – spoke volumes to how much he bore on his shoulders, which only made Geralt even more irritable towards Dettlaff, who at that stage wasn’t just a murderer and a stubborn asshole, but was starting to get _really annoying_.

“You dare show your face to me, witcher?” Dettlaff sneered as Geralt approached the cage. “After you stood between me and justice, sought to destroy me –”

“You thought what you did to Beauclair was _justice?_ ”

“Rhena – Syanna – betrayed me, and _you_ –”

“Oh, boo fucking hoo,” Geralt snapped.

Dettlaff reeling, his fangs bared. “You _mock_ me –”

“How many people died that night, Dettlaff?”

“I warned her what would happen if she did not –”

Geralt slammed his fist against the cage. “ _How many people died that night?_ ”

Finally – _finally_ – Dettlaff fell silent.

Geralt exhaled, and allowed his fist to unfurl against the cold metal bars of the cage, using it to brace his weight against it while he spoke. “Syanna used you,” he said. “She forced you to kill by making you think someone you loved was in danger. I’m sorry she put you through that. But when her manipulation was uncovered, you just slaughtered even more innocents. Funny how you didn’t have a problem with it when it was your decision. So cool motive, Dettlaff, but that’s still murder, and the last I checked you’re the only responsible for your own choices.”

There it was again – that expression that Geralt could only identify as agony, peeking through the marred, infuriated ridges of the vampire’s true, hideous form. Dettlaff strained against the cuffs again, growing through his fangs. “Release me from this prison,” he snarled.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Has my humiliation not been enough _entertainment_ for you?”

“Do I look like I’m enjoying this?” Geralt snapped. “Get over yourself, Dettlaff. You’re so caught up over what Syanna did to you that you can’t even take a second to think about what Regis has done _for_ you. The only reason you’re alive right now is because I couldn’t stand to let Regis suffer for your stupidity.”

Dettlaff stilled.

“Do you understand how far you went to get Regis – _Regis_ – to even consider taking your miserable life? You got any idea what going through with that would’ve cost him?”

 _That_ made an impact. Dettlaff’s snarls were still heavy, but he leaned his head forward against the bars of the cage, his enraged transformation muting ever so slightly.

“You gonna calm the fuck down?” Geralt pressed. “Listen to what Regis has to say?”

Dettlaff growled, but did not disagree.

Geralt pushed himself away from the bars and turned on his heel.

Regis hadn’t gone for long – before Geralt even reached the entrance of the blood grounds, his friend had returned, paused in the crumbling archway where he watched Dettlaff with an expression Geralt could only describe as a long-lost lover’s.

“He’s all yours,” he muttered as he swept past Regis. "Meet you back at the vineyard. Or the graveyard.”

Both held the appeal of getting fantastically, expensively drunk; it didn’t really matter which place he ended up.

“Come to the graveyard,” Regis decided for them both. “I have something for you.”

“Damn it, Regis, I told you –”

“I know, I know,” Regis interrupted calmly, that damn infuriating smile on his mouth again, the one that always made Geralt still and breathe, if only to steal another moment more of drinking in the expression. “You’re not doing this for coin, or payment, or a reward. So allow me to assure you that what I have to give you is neither coin, nor payment, nor a reward. You may consider it, rather, as an – expression of my deep and abiding gratitude and affection.”

“You’re making me blush, Regis,” Geralt said, though he couldn’t really fight his own small, sheepish grin. “All right. See you later.”

Regis gripped his arm once more, his hand lingering just a moment too long – not, Geralt thought, that he was keeping count of the seconds. Geralt didn’t look back until he was almost around the corner to escape the depths of Tesham Mutna’s torture chamber; when he did, he wished he’d kept on walking.

Through the bars, Regis held Dettlaff’s vampiric face between his hands tenderly, leaning forwards enough to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m here, my friend,” Regis murmured. “Come back to me.”

Dettlaff’s face slowly melted back to something human and painfully vulnerable; his weak, human-form body sagged against the cold bars of his cage, and quietly, he began to weep.

Geralt left before he could see Regis kiss his tears away. Wasn’t any of his fucking business, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left a comment!! I'm so glad you're enjoying this small, sporadic story. xx
> 
> FYI if the "cool motive, still murder" line hadn't worked, Geralt would have cracked out a guitar and screamed at Dettlaff until he chilled.

**Author's Note:**

> This may turn into something bigger. It may not! Either way, I hope you like this small piece. If I ever feel the need to [take a break from the sequel to my book](https://hlmoorewrites.tumblr.com/deathsembrace), I'll probably come back to this.


End file.
